Worth a Try
by ResidentPyromaniac
Summary: When it hurts more then could ever be imagined, smile brighter than anyone else. But the facade can only stay up for so long.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** There's just no explanation for this. Really. I don't own Hetalia. I don't suggest you read this if you are easily disturbed or offended. If you find something wrong (grammar, awkward phrasing, that kind of thing), please tell me so I can fix it.

* * *

_Pathetic._

A hand gripping the counter, marble edges digging into his flesh.

_Stupid._

Eyes squeezed shut, not quite enough to prevent tears from escaping.

_Weak._

Gritted teeth, not going to scream, not going to _scream_.

"_My brother is a total wuss, that's what! Now fuck off!"_

Did they think that he couldn't hear them?

"_Ah, little Feliciano? Oui, he is rather stupid…"_

Did they think that he didn't understand them?

"_Italien! If you cannot do something properly, then get out of the way!"_

Did they think he wouldn't care?

"_Hah, I'm totally just messing with you, Italy. You, like, make it way too easy."_

They all thought the same thing. It was how the world worked. Wars were made, and somehow _that_ was wisdom among their kind. If a nation did not fight, did not excel in battle, then they were dubbed useless and left as a prize for whatever stronger nation might come their way.

"_I do not wish to seem rude, Italy, but why is it that you do not appear to be trying?"_

Because war had caused his grandfather to wither and die before his very eyes.

"_I don't know. I just suddenly got the urge to hit him…"_

Because war had made his childhood a blur of being tossed from nation to nation, just a scrap of meat for a pack of hungry dogs.

"_Ever since the 900's, I've always loved you…"_

Because war killed his first love.

No. Worse.

One of the people he actually thought of as a _brother_ killed his first love. France had never actually said what he did around Italy, of course, but secrets were never kept between nations for very long.

Eyes opened, stared into their reflection in the mirror. Eyes that were broken, almost crazed. A face that he never showed to the others. Never. They already knew how weak he was. He didn't need to confirm it yet again. So he hid that face, his true face, from the world behind a smile and silliness.

Because, if he really tried, he could laugh louder and smile brighter than anyone else. And he could almost forget the pain, the constant pain crushing his chest and making him wonder how he was still alive.

Sometimes, he didn't know where the idea came from. It just came to him in these moments – _these weak moments_ – and stayed in his mind. Sometimes he managed to push it away, back to whatever dark corner of his consciousness it normally stayed in.

Other times, he had to act.

He wasn't human. It wouldn't work. He knew that from all the other times. But as Feliciano Vargas, North Italy, looked down at the razorblade lying on the bathroom counter, he could only think one thing.

_It's worth a try._


	2. Chapter 2

**Note: **This note is only here because I feel like my chapters feel awkward and naked without one. I still don't own Hetalia.

**

* * *

  
**

The second Germany walked into Italy's house, he knew something was wrong.

Italy's house was never silent. The small nation was almost always bustling around somewhere, talking or singing to himself. Or a television would be left on somewhere, filling the house with the sounds of a football match. Or his brother would be visiting, adding some very colorful commentary to whatever he may have been doing.

Not this time. Germany strained his ears, desperate to hear something – anything – that would prove that Italy was all right, that everything was normal. Even if it was just a radio left playing static. Even if it was just the sound of snoring coming from Italy's bedroom.

No. The house was dead silent.

Germany instantly pictured the worst possible scenarios. Someone had come and taken Italy away. Italy had gotten in some kind of accident. Italy was horribly ill. Italy-

Wait. There was a sound there, constant and quiet enough that it had escaped his notice. Running water. A shower. But something was still wrong. He could sense it.

Germany rushed up the stairs as quickly as he could and knocked at the bathroom door. "Italy, are you all right?" He asked, loud enough that he could be heard, but not so loud as to be shouting.

No response. Despite not wanting to invade his friend's privacy – _although, really, how many times had Italy barged in on his showers?_ – he tried the doorknob. It was locked.

Italy rarely remembered to lock the outside doors. Germany was surprised that any of the doors within the house had locks at all. "_Italien_!"

There was still no response. Germany tried to think, tried to rationalize the situation and not let his imagination get carried away. Perhaps Italy had just left the water running and gone out somewhere? It wouldn't have been the first time he did something like that.

But no, the door was locked. From the inside.

There was no rational explanation about that. "_Italien!_" Germany shouted again, desperate for some sort of response. It couldn't be…

Nothing but the sound of falling water came from the other side of the door. Cursing himself for such rash actions – _it was probably nothing, he always overreacted in these situations_ – Germany did the only thing he could think of. He kicked the door, the cheap lock giving in easily and sending the door slamming back against the wall. The shower curtain was drawn, obscuring anything within from view. Germany ripped it aside, not even caring that he could very well end up seeing far more of the Italian than was really necessary. Reality was worse, anyway.

Italy was slumped against the wall of the shower, shirt and boxer shorts soaked and clinging to his slender form. The water ran red. Blood seeped from the long slashes in each arm, a razorblade clamped in one hand. His eyes were clouded and half-closed. Germany froze, shock and memories stilling action.

"_Germany, Germany, what were we doing today? I forgot…" Italy stopped abruptly. "Germany… what…?"_

"_Get out of here, Italy," Germany said, his voice completely monotone. It wasn't that the other nation had walked in on him showering – again – or that he seemed incapable of remembering any plan that didn't have to do with meals. It was that wide-eyed stare, that total bewilderment that hurt Germany even more than the burns and wounds littering his body. The self-inflicted injuries, how he turned against his own people and killed them so ruthlessly._

"_Germany… how could you…"_

_A hard stare. "It will make me stronger." Repeating again, the same sentence that he had to say every time he did it. Repeated so he would not break._

"…_.Germany…"_

_Germany punched the shower wall. A tile cracked. "I cannot disobey!" He roared. He could not disobey his boss; he could not let his boss down after the man saved him from the ashes of the first World War. He could not disobey. Italy fled, terrified._

"It seems the tables are turned this time," Germany muttered, turning off the water. Checking for a pulse confirmed his suspicions – Italy was dead. Acting automatically, without thought and therefore without emotion, Germany carried the body to the bedroom. He didn't care about the blood staining his clothing. Once Italy was properly laid on the bed, Germany went to search for bandages.

They were nations, after all. A nation could not die as long as their people maintained their identity – that was how his brother had survived being dissolved, how he and every other nation had survived injuries that would have been fatal to any human. Germany couldn't be sure how long Italy would remain dead, but he was determined to make sure that Italy would be able to heal properly.

He tried not to think about the scars on Italy's arms, the long scars vertically down each arm. The scars that indicated that this had happened before.

God damn it. How could he have been so blind? How long had this been going on? He thought back on the way Italy acted, but couldn't remember any major change in personality, couldn't remember anything that would make him think something was wrong. How could he have been so blind? Italy was always the happy one, the silly one, the only one who had been able to make Germany smile when the blond was stressed or upset about something. Italy had always been the most obvious about his emotions, laughing whenever he was happy or screaming like a fool whenever he was frightened. How could Germany have been so blind?

How could he have known?


	3. Chapter 3

**Note**: Yes, another note just so I don't feel like the chapter is sad and naked. Also... is it just me, or are these chapters getting slightly longer with each one?

* * *

Italy awoke, disconnected and disoriented, just like all the other times. But something was off, something was wrong. He should have been greeted by a constant stream of freezing water, set up to help him get his bearings again faster. Through the haze of his mind, he tried to understand his surroundings. Soft. Warm.

Did it work this time? So many emotions washed over him through the fog. Relief – it was finally, _finally_ over. No more pain. Worry – what did this mean for his people? Did something happen? Or was he replaced? Confusion – how could it have worked this time, when it had always failed?

Italy tried opening his eyes, but immediately closed them against the light. It was far too bright, and too soon. His senses were returning, though. He could hear birdsong. The softness beneath him… some sort of cushion? Italy tried to sit up, but was overcome by dizziness almost instantly.

Whatever hope he'd gathered in those few woozy minutes vanished instantly. If he could get dizzy, then he wasn't dead anymore. If he wasn't permanently dead, he would have to get up and face the pain again. He opened his eyes again, prepared for the sunlight this time.

The sound of footsteps from downstairs reminded Italy of another thing. He wasn't in the shower, as he should have been. That could only mean one thing.

Someone had found him. Someone had seen his worst secret, his greatest weakness. A quick glance at his arms confirmed it – they were completely wrapped in bandages, stained reddish brown with dried blood.

That someone was still here. As the footsteps proceeded up the stairs, Italy laid back and shut his eyes. With any luck, whoever it was would think that he was still dead or in a coma. Italy could hear the door open, and footsteps approach the bed.

They stopped. Italy continued to lie perfectly still. The tension scratched at his nerves. Why couldn't that… whoever it was just leave? It took everything in him to not move, not breathe, not do anything that would give away that he was… better, for lack of a more accurate term.

"Italy, I know you're awake."

Italy flinched. No. No. It couldn't be. It just had to be Germany, didn't it? Of course. The worst possible person to know about it was the one who found out. He wouldn't understand. Nobody would.

And even though Germany was his friend, he was often the one who would tell Italy that he needed to become stronger. That Italy had to know how to fight. He was the one who would sometimes lose his temper, and just yell at him for whatever he may have messed up that time. Those words would hurt wounds in Italy's heart and mind, wounds that would never heal. Sometimes Italy suspected that he only stayed around Germany because the blond reminded him of _him_, of the one he had loved so many years ago, of the one who had died. And that hurt, too.

"Italy…"

He could hear the tension in the voice. Germany was trying to hide whatever he was feeling. _Because showing emotion is yet another sign of weakness, right Germany? That's why you always keep such a neutral expression._

He wouldn't reply. Germany didn't deserve a reply. And what could he say? How could he explain the situation? Italy was almost certain of what had happened. Germany probably came to visit, or discuss politics. Perhaps it had taken a while for him to realize that Italy wasn't there. Eventually he found his way to the bathroom, and assumed that Italy was there from the running water.

And he would have found Italy.

"Feliciano."

It was the use of his name, his _human_ name, that made Italy's eyes snap open. He couldn't remember a time when Germany had ever called him that. It had always been "Italy". Never anything but that.

And what was with that tone of concern in his voice? Italy stared at the ceiling, purposely avoiding eye contact with the nation standing by his bed. Germany couldn't possibly be worried, right? If he was, he wouldn't say such hurtful things all the time… But Italy was a weak nation, he found himself reasoning. Of course, Germany wanted to protect him because he was weak. It was nothing more than that.

"Feliciano, please," The strain in his voice was more than obvious now. "Please say something."

Italy considered his options. If he did speak, Germany would probably make him spill his heart out right then and there. If he remained silent, Germany would stay in his house for however much time it would be until Italy did speak. Until work forced him to leave, of course. Germany was always one to have a hand in his own politics, just so he could know what was going on. Italy, on the other hand, trusted the officials elected by his people to do their jobs properly. He would only get personally involved if there was some major emergency.

Decision made, Italy turned onto his side, facing away from Germany. He could almost see the expression on the blond man's face, the well-hidden surprise and, yes, there would probably be some anger as well. After all, Germany was used to Italy obeying his every order. And Italy knew that Germany hated it when he was wrong about something, even if he never admitted it.

Italy laid on his side, staring blankly at the wall, until he heard the sound of Germany walking away, down the stairs, out of the house.

_No, Germany, I won't talk to you. What would you want me to say if I did? That I hate how nobody will ever acknowledge me? That it's obvious how everyone, yes, even you, thinks that I'm a pathetic excuse for a nation? That there's times when I wish I was just a human, so it could all end so much more easily? _

_Germany, you have no idea what I've been through. Really, you should be more sympathetic, more understanding. You may be young by our standards, even younger than America is, but you know what history does to us. How it is impossible to forget, to ever heal from some things. And you should understand that it's not just you._

_You called me weak. Could a weak nation have survived the Black Plague? Could a weak nation have created so many things that are still considered the height of culture? Could a weak nation have been the origin of most of your science?_

_Oh, I forgot. Military strength is the only thing that's important. So that makes me weak. Useless._

_Never mind._


	4. Chapter 4

**Note:** Sorry guys... Fast update but a short chapter. Next chapter will be longer, I promise.

* * *

"What's bothering you, West?"

Germany didn't look up. "Nothing is bothering me, Gilbert. I'm trying to work."

"Bullshit. You've been staring at that page for the past hour." The former nation of Prussia leaned on the desk, putting a hand directly on top of the paper that Germany had claimed to be reading. "Did you have a fight with your boyfriend or something?" the albino asked, grinning.

"Italy is not my boyfriend. We are only-" Germany cut himself off. What right did he have to call himself Italy's friend? Friends were supposed to trust each other, not hide whatever was bothering them to the point where…

Germany repressed a shudder at the memory. The way Italy turned away from him, not even sparing a glance. Italy's body lying limp underneath the falling water, as his blood slipped down the drain. If Germany really was Italy's friend, Italy would have been able to talk to Germany about whatever was bothering him. Italy would have at least spoken to him afterward. It wouldn't have come to this.

Prussia studied his brother for a moment. It wasn't very easy for most people to read the younger nation's emotions, but most people hadn't raised said nation since childhood. And Prussia hadn't seen Germany this bothered since World War II. "Hey," he said, poking his brother. Germany looked up, snapped out of his thoughts, to see Prussia looking at him with a much more concerned expression. "Don't ignore your awesome brother. What is it?"

Germany gave his brother a hard stare for a moment, before looking away again. He couldn't tell Gilbert what had happened. If he told Gilbert, then it would only be a matter of time before Spain and France found out. France was probably one of the biggest gossips in the world. Spain would tell Romano, who Germany just knew would find a way to blame him for it.

Either way, it would turn out badly. Germany was sure of it.

---

Italy paced impatiently around his house. He wanted to get away. He didn't want to talk to anyone. He wanted to see other people, but he wanted to be alone. He wanted peace and quiet. He wanted a distraction. Conflicting ideas and emotions raged in his head, creating a turmoil that was almost too much to bear. As his wanderings brought him to the kitchen, Italy's gaze slid over to the knife set. _It would be so easy_, a traitorous voice in his mind told him. _ You could escape from it all, even if it's just for a few hours…_

_No._ Italy stopped himself, striding away from the knives, from the temptation. He couldn't do that, not so soon after the last time. He had to hold out, for the sake of his people. His most recent attack on himself had caused a train wreck. Over thirty of his people had died, and for what? Nothing, nothing but a selfish, temporary reprieve from the inescapable. He hated himself for the weakness.

Italy sighed into the empty room. He was used to this guilt. It was part of a cycle that had been repeating for… how long, now? Even he wasn't sure. Italy would continue through his life, pretending that he didn't hear the comments and insults that tore at his very heart. He would hide his misery, his fury from the rest of the world, until it would become too much. And then he would break down. Of course, as a nation, Italy couldn't be killed that easily. He couldn't escape with such pathetic attempts. So he would recover, and learn what his temporary death had caused among his people. And he would hate himself for being so weak. The hate would be the first part of the growing burden that would eventually trigger his next attack on himself.

Except… this time was different. The guilt and hatred was still there, but there was another component now. Fear. Germany had come; Germany had seen Italy at his weakest moment. Germany had thrown sand into the gears. Now the machine was broken, wobbling, and even Italy had no idea what would happen next.

He had no idea what Germany would do. Would he tell the other nations? Would he keep it a secret? Would he return to Italy's house, or would he cut off all communication?

Pacing around the house wasn't helping. Italy had to get away.


	5. Chapter 5

**Note:** I think now might be a good time to mention that I still don't own Hetalia... Also, many thanks to everyone who reviewed. You all give me the warm fuzzies.

On an unrelated note... -whacks Prussia with a rolled-up newspaper- Bad nation! No pancakes for you!

Also, if there's anyone reading this who speaks Russian or Italian, could you please send me a message? I'm pretty sure I'm going to need some translating help.

* * *

It had been almost a week since that day. Germany had plunged himself into work. Germany's boss commented on the intensity with which he had been working, only to be dismissed by a vague comment about needing to be more efficient. Prussia tried several times to get his brother to take a break, but was given a different excuse every time. There was a world meeting coming up, and Germany had to make sure that everything was in order. He had been slacking off too much recently, and he had to make up for it. He needed to stay organized.

Germany knew that every single one of his excuses was nothing more than that – an excuse; a lie to his brother and to himself. He was only working this hard to avoid Italy. Italy hated him, he was sure of it. After all, Italy had turned away from him, and had done nothing to contact him since then. Germany scowled at the document in his hand at the thought, and then filed it away. It was useless to think that way. It would only upset him further.

Prussia stood in the doorway, watching his brother with concern. He didn't know what had shaken Germany so badly, but he suspected it had something to do with Italy. "West, you need to take a break," the albino finally said. "You're going to drive yourself nuts if you keep going like that."

Germany didn't answer. He didn't even look up. Prussia waited for a moment before realizing that no answer was forthcoming, and sighed. Other nations may have just considered Prussia an uncaring, egotistical jerk, but he had learned quite some time ago to look out for his family. It was a lesson he'd learned the hard way.

It was obvious that he wouldn't get any answers from Germany. He had to take a different approach. "Okay, West… I'm just going to go and be awesome somewhere else, then," Prussia informed his brother before wandering back to his room. He grabbed a phone and dialed a familiar number before crashing onto his bed.

"_Ve, hello?"_

"Hey, Feliciano!" Prussia greeted, confident that the Italian would recognize his voice. "How's my favorite little doofus doing?"

"_Everything's great!"_ Italy's voice chirped back over the line. _"I was doing some painting earlier and now I'm making some pasta for lunch."_

Prussia relaxed slightly. Italy was his normal self, so it was likely that nothing too serious had happened. It was probably just something like the Saint Valentine's Day fiasco all over again. "Great to hear, Feli. But actually, I didn't just call so you could bask in my awesomeness. I wanted to ask you something."

"_What is it?"_

"Did something happen between you and West a little while ago?" Prussia asked, not bothering to be anything but blunt. "I know he went to visit you, and something's got him really stressed out since then."

There was a long period of silence at the other end of the line, long enough for Prussia to start wondering it Italy had even heard the question. Suddenly, Italy's voice came back. _"Ve… Sorry about that. My pasta was boiling over."_

"Did you hear what I said?"

"_Yeah, yeah, I heard you!"_ Italy replied, and in his mind's eye, Prussia could see the nation waving his hands illustratively. _"Um… I don't think I did anything that would make Germany upset…"_ Italy's voice trailed off for a moment before returning full-force. _"You don't think Germany's mad at me, do you?!"_

Prussia couldn't restrain a light chuckle at Italy's nearly-panicked-sounding tone. No matter what happened in the world, there were some things that remained constant. Russia was a sadistic creep. France would attempt to sleep with anything humanoid and breathing. Prussia would be awesome, and Italy would be a lovable, adorable, easily frightened idiot. "Nah, he doesn't seem mad," Prussia assured the small brunette. "He's probably just over-thinking something stupid again. Or maybe it's just that he's been worried about that world meeting. You know how he gets."

"_Yeah… That does sound like Germany."_

Was it Prussia's imagination, or did Italy sound… disappointed? "Hey, Feli, are you sure you're all right?"

"_Ve, I'm perfectly fine! Everything's normal!"_ Even Prussia couldn't miss the slightly too hurried tone, the slight crack in Italy's voice. Before he could ask about it, Italy continued. _"Ah! My pasta's done! I have to go!"_ The line disconnected with a click, leaving Prussia to stare at the rather depressed-looking panda bears on his shelf. He wasn't any closer to answers than he had been before calling Italy. Actually, he just had more questions – why did Italy sound upset by the end of the conversation?

An irritated chirp from a pile of laundry towards one side of the room reminded Prussia that he had other things to take care of, too. He decided to let this mystery sit for a while.

Hundreds of miles away, Italy threw his phone across the room. It hit the wall and landed with a loud clatter, but Italy couldn't bring himself to care, slouching down against the wall instead. Tears rolled down his cheeks as his body shook with silent sobs. Germany had been avoiding him, after all. Prussia's call confirmed that, even if he didn't say so outright. And Prussia could tell that there was something wrong with Italy. Everything was falling apart, and Italy wasn't sure how long he could keep pretending that nothing was wrong. He wasn't even sure how long he could pretend that nothing was different.

He had to call Germany. No. Prussia would wonder why Italy was calling back so soon if he did. And Germany didn't want to talk to him anyway.

Italy wiped the tears from his face. He had to prepare for the world meeting, at the very least. He had to make sure that he could play it off, make it look like he was perfectly fine. The last thing he wanted was for another nation to notice that something wasn't right. He didn't want to think about what would happen if they saw that he was weak again, weak _still_, weak like he had been in his childhood… If he showed weakness, his childhood would repeat itself. Of that, he was sure.


	6. Chapter 6

**Note:** Okay, I love all you people who reviewed. Seriously... Also, all Italian used in this chapter was done through an online translator. Feel more than free to correct my grammar. In fact, please correct my grammar in anything, not just the Italian.

**Note the Second:** Italian fixed. Thank you, thank you, thank you StarsOfYaoi for helping!

* * *

The world meeting hadn't actually started yet – nations were just standing around or sitting in their chairs, waiting until everyone had shown up. Things were going as they always did before the meetings. America, England, and France were yelling at each other over something stupid. Russia was terrorizing Latvia, while Estonia was trying to act protectively towards the tiny nation without attracting Russia's attention himself. Poland was practically holding Lithuania hostage, talking to him excitedly. Greece dozed in a corner.

Germany scanned the room uneasily. Italy wasn't there yet, but he would show up. Although there were some nations who could quite easily skip a world meeting without any issues – Seychelles, perhaps, or that nation that was always carrying a little polar bear around – Italy wasn't one of them.

"Germany! Germany! Hey, Germany!"

"Italy?" Germany looked down in surprise that nearly bordered on shock as the smaller nation pulled him into a hug. In the few moments where the taller nation tried to rearrange his thoughts to the point where the current situation would even come close to making sense, Italy pulled back.

Italy spoke excitedly, only breaking stride to hiss a warning in between words. "Germany! It's so great to see you! I thought you were mad at me_ and don't even think about saying anything_ and you're not mad at me, right?"

Germany stared slightly, taken aback at how quickly Italy's mood had changed to fury and then returned to the side that Germany had always known. Or, at least, the side that Germany had always thought that he had known. It was unnerving, for more reasons than he could identify. "…I'm not mad," He finally managed to say. Italy stared at him with an almost calculating expression, before his face slipped back to bright cheerfulness.

"Ve, that's great! I'm going to go talk to Romano for a bit, okay? Bye!" Germany watched Italy bounce away; acting like absolutely nothing had ever changed or happened. The apparent normality of the scene was enough to send a chill down the blond's spine. It was unnerving how Italy's demeanor really wasn't any different than normal.

Before the meeting, Germany had been telling himself that what he had found, what he had seen, had only been a recent development. He had to tell himself that… but now he was proven wrong. For all he knew, this could have been going on for decades.

---

The meeting started off as smoothly as they generally did, which is to say that chaos ensued almost immediately. America had come up with some idiotic idea, as usual, and triggered a yelling match that had been going for twenty minutes. Germany watched with annoyance – even though he knew the nations could do nothing without the consent of their bosses, he liked the meetings to at least _pretend_ to be productive.

"Are you going to say something?"

Germany froze for a panicked moment before he realized what Switzerland was talking about. Looking over to America, who was still shouting, he said, "I probably should." He really should just yell at them, make them shut up and actually get something done.

Maybe he should tell someone about Italy. He really should, it's not something that should just be kept a secret forever – but Italy's warning still rang in his ears. He couldn't tell anyone, but he had to…

"Hey,_ bastardo_! What the hell is wrong with you?" The all-too-familiar voice of Lovino Vargas cut through Germany's thoughts. The blond turned in surprise to look at the permanently irritated Italian.

"What do you mean?" He asked, not knowing what he had done to draw Italy Romano's wrath this time.

Lovino huffed in annoyance. "What the hell did you do to my brother?"

Germany's blood nearly froze solid in his veins. "Wh- What are you talking about?" He managed to ask.

"He's usually clinging to you like you're flypaper or something," Lovino growled. "And he hasn't come within three meters of you since the beginning of the meeting."

Germany frowned. "I thought you would be glad of that."

"_Idiota_!" Lovino shouted, mostly unnoticed because of the existing noise. "The only reason my idiot brother would avoid you is if you hurt him. _Scoprirò quello che gli hai fatto, fottuto stronz, e pagherai per questo_" Before Germany could say anything in response to what was clearly a threat, Lovino stomped off to yell at Spain about something.

Germany watched the chaos that was supposed to be a meeting continue for too many minutes. He sighed. There might as well be one thing that happened as normal.

"Everybody shut up!" He roared. The other nations fell silent in the face of an angry German. At least one thing could be normal.

---

Italy lingered for a while after the meeting ended, mostly as a way to avoid Germany. He had made sure that he wouldn't say anything about what he had seen. That was enough, for now. That was all that he could stand to do.

"You are all right, Italy?" The deceivingly childish voice of the Russian Federation asked, sounding concerned. Italy jumped slightly, not having realized that he wasn't alone.

"Ve…_Non c'è niente che non va. Sto perfettamente bene__,_" he replied, slipping into his own tongue for a moment. Realizing his mistake, he quickly added, "I'm all right. Why would you think anything is wrong?" and turned to face Russia. The larger nation was smiling as he always did, in his usual slightly disturbing way.

"Are you sure about that?" He asked, actually sounding concerned. Italy looked away while Russia kept talking. "You seemed to be avoiding your friend Germany, da? Did something happen between you two?"

Italy avoided looking back to Russia, and stayed silent. Why should anyone care if he didn't want to talk to Germany? It was none of their business, not their problem. They shouldn't care, just think that he was being –

"I know that you are not stupid, Italy." Russia's comment seemed so random that Italy looked at the larger nation in surprise. The larger nation smiled, but it seemed softer, more genuine than his usual expression. "What is it that has bothered you?"

"Nothing," Italy snapped, surprising himself more than Russia. "I should be going."

Quickly, before Italy could react or pull away, Russia grabbed hold of Italy's wrist and pulled the arm closer to him. "What do you think-" Italy started to say, but cut himself short when Russia pushed the long sleeve of his shirt back, revealing the scars. The larger nation didn't say anything as Italy turned his face away in shame. _Another one, someone else knows. No. Don't look… Please…_

"You are a good person, Italy," Russia said, pulling Italy's sleeve back into place and dropping his arm. Italy looked back at the blond in surprise, bordering on shock. Of all the reactions he could have expected, that was not one of them.

"Wh… What do you mean?" He asked, almost as a whisper.

Russia smiled a sad smile as he started to walk out of the room. Pausing at the doorway, not looking back, he said, "Even at your worst moments… You will only strike against yourself."

Italy stood alone in the room, wondering what had just happened.

---

**_Helpful Translations_**

_Bastardo _- bastard

_Idiota _- idiot

_Scoprirò quello che gli hai fatto, fottuto stronz, e pagherai per questo. _- I will find out what you did to him, fucking shit, and you will pay for that.**_  
_**

_Non c'è niente che non va. Sto perfettamente bene_. - Nothing is wrong. I am perfectly fine.


	7. Chapter 7

**Note:** Second to last chapter, guys. I'm sorry I'm cutting this off so soon, but that's the way it goes, I guess. Many thanks to everyone who reviewed/favorited/alert-ed. They were enough of guilt trips to make me keep writing. Oh, and I still don't own Hetalia.

* * *

Life moved on. Russia hadn't done anything to contact Italy since the meeting. Italy somehow managed to convince Romano that nothing was wrong, a task made easier by the fact that his brother cared more about Spain than family. Most of the other nations had never noticed in the first place. There were only two loose ends left.

Germany was growing bolder in his attempts to wrangle some sort of explanation from Italy. He would call at least once every day, although he would back off for several hours whenever Italy hung up on him. He could take a hint.

The other problem was Prussia. As far as Italy could tell, Germany had either told the albino ex-nation part of what had happened, or Italy had simply not held himself together well enough during that phone call that now seemed so long ago. Either way, Prussia was added to the group of people who knew that something wasn't right with Italy – a small group, yes, but still far too large. And Prussia's ways of getting answers were a bit more… straightforward than Germany's. It was getting to the point where he would just corner Italy and not let him get away until he got a decent answer.

There was a knock on the door as that last idea came to Italy, almost as if it were on cue. Italy hesitated, debating whether or not to answer it. It could have been Germany, going to bother him again. It could have been his brother, yelling at him about something. It could have been some random human needing help with something.

The internal debate turned out to be for naught. Before Italy could decide whether or not to answer the door, it was kicked down. "Hey, Feli!"

Italy blanched. Despite the cheerful tone and the use of the familiar nickname, it was far too obvious that Prussia was _not_ happy. "W-what is it, Prussia?" On the bright side, it wasn't too difficult to pretend to be his normal, clueless, terrified, _(weak)_ self. Prussia scowled.

"Stop that." He said bluntly, walking into Italy's house without bothering to put the door back into place. He grabbed the smaller nation by the elbow and dragged him into the kitchen, sitting down at the table. "You're going to tell me what's going on, right?" It wasn't a question.

Italy frowned, his cheerful-idiot act slipping. It didn't matter anymore. Prussia clearly knew that something was wrong. And it was just as clear that he wasn't planning to leave unless he got an answer that satisfied him. All the same… "Nothing's going on," Italy said quietly, sounding defeated.

Prussia scowled. "You and I both know that's a load of shit," he pointed out, blunt as he ever was. When Italy turned away, the albino hit the table in frustration. "Look, Feli," he continued, sounding more exasperated than anything. "I promised West that I'd figure out what was up with you."

Normally, Italy would have immediately responded to the mention of Germany. He would have looked up, smiled, asked how Germany was doing.

Italy said nothing. If any change in expression showed, it was nothing more than a slight frown, gone in less than a second.

Prussia sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was never really that good at the whole talking-to-people thing, especially not when it involved emotions. Most of the time he was too awesome to deal with other peoples' issues, but the downside was that he was always out of practice when something hit close to home. "West's really upset, you know," he tried.

Whatever reaction Prussia expected from that, it wasn't the one he got. Italy snorted slightly, as if trying to restrain a laugh. "Ve… Of course he is," the brunette said quietly, with a wry smile. "And you're here because you're worried about him?"

"He's family," Prussia replied cautiously. He had never heard that tone from Italy before. It was dangerously calm, and reminded him too much of the time he spent with Russia. "I've already lost my father and one brother. He's all I have left."

"You're worried about him because he's worried about me?" Prussia had no response to that. Italy had not asked a question as much as stated a fact, and they both knew it. Italy seemed to focus all of his attention on the grain of the wooden table. "He shouldn't be worried about me," the short brunette said mildly.

"Why is he, then?" Prussia asked. Germany hadn't actually said anything specific about the entire situation, after all. All the albino knew was that his little brother was worried sick, and it had something to do with Italy, and that Italy was acting a bit strange lately.

Italy smiled, distant and sad. "I really don't know," he lied. "He shouldn't worry about me. I'm - " He stopped, somehow unable to keep talking, keep lying. "He shouldn't worry about me."

"But he is."

"He shouldn't!" Italy snapped, suddenly standing up to yell at Prussia and repeating himself for the fourth time.. "It's none of his business! It's not his business, and it isn't yours, either!" He inhaled shakily, and kept yelling. "At least everyone else was smart enough to write it off as me being silly or something like that when I was acting a bit off during the meeting! Even when Lovino noticed, he stopped asking me about it after a bit. But no, you couldn't back off. And neither could Germany! He just _had _to go off and keep worrying and get everyone's attention, didn't he? It's not his problem. It's not _anyone's_ problem. He should never have found out!" Italy froze, realizing the last sentence that came out of his mouth. His fists were clenched so tightly on the table that his knuckles were completely white, and he started to shake. Seconds later, he was back in his chair, covering his face in a futile attempt to muffle his sobs.

Prussia was stunned, having absolutely no idea what to do in the face of Italy's sudden fury and subsequent breakdown. For several minutes, the only sounds in the kitchen were Italy crying and a clock ticking from somewhere in the room. Finally, Prussia spoke. "Found out what?"

Italy replied with a muffled, half-choked curse in his own tongue.

Prussia persisted. "What did West find out, Feli?"

Italy's sobs ceased for long enough for him to say "D-don't call me that."

"Answer the question."

"…No."

"Why not?"

Silence greeted this, punctuated by an occasional sniffle from Italy and the ticking clock.

"You know you can tell me if it's something political," Prussia pointed out. After a slight hesitation, he added in a more bitter tone, "It's not like I actually have any influence anymore."

Italy still didn't reply, choosing instead to look up at the wall.

Prussia sighed. "And if it's personal…" The albino hesitated for a moment, trying to think of a way to get some sort of explanation from the Italian. "I can be a lot more understanding than I let on, you know?"

"No."

"What?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"Try me," Prussia challenged.

Italy continued to stare at the wall for a few moments before turning to face Prussia. He couldn't see any anger in the albino's eyes, or deception. There was just… concern. And a bit of fear. Prussia… was afraid of him?

No, it couldn't be. Prussia must have been afraid of what he might tell him. Somehow, that was worse. Italy sighed, resignedly. "Ve… there's no way… to really say it…" Prussia remained silent, and the brunette pushed on. "Germany… he…"

"What did West do?"

Italy bit his lower lip in an attempt to not start crying again. After a few stammered half-sentences and jumbled syllables, he gave up trying to use words. Unable to think of any other way to explain it, he only rolled up one of his shirt sleeves and held his arm out to Prussia, exposing the scars to the albino.

Prussia said nothing, but gently pulled Italy's arm toward him. He wasn't stupid. He knew what those scars were, what they meant. "…How long?" He finally asked.

"I don't know."

The two of them stayed silent for several moments. In a sudden fit of self-consciousness, Italy yanked his arm back and rolled the sleeve back down. Again, Prussia broke the silence, this time with a hesitant "Why?"

It took a while for Italy to come up with a coherent answer. He couldn't really put the whole jumble of emotions that drove him to that point in words. He couldn't really explain how horrible, how demeaning it was for everyone to think of him as some random idiot with no significance in anything. "Ve… I… just have to get away sometimes…"

Prussia nodded. He did understand the need to get away, even if he couldn't comprehend the level at which Italy had tried to do so. After all, he'd spent most of World War II and the subsequent fifty or so years completely intoxicated, just so he wouldn't have to deal with the reality. But… Prussia frowned. "But your people…"

"You think I don't know that?" Italy asked with an entirely humorless laugh. "You have no idea how much I hate myself for that. Killing my… my _children_ just because I'm too weak to handle my own issues."

"Italy…" Prussia trailed off, before continuing. "I'm not the one you should be talking to about this." He tried to ignore the way Italy's fists suddenly clenched, enough for his knuckles to turn white. "Come on," he said. "You need to talk to West."


	8. Chapter 8

**Note:** Phew, finally got the last chapter done. Thanks again to everyone who reviewed and favorited and alerted, you all made me feel warm and fuzzy inside.

**Warning:** High levels of cheese. Not recommended for the lactose-intolerant.

* * *

The silence was unbearable. It surrounded Germany, crushed in on him like a suffocating blanket. The ticking of the clock only emphasized the quiet, punctuating it with regular, sharp clicks that echoed through the empty house. Normally Germany would have welcomed the silence as freedom from distractions to do his work, but not this. It was all wrong.

How could Italy do such a thing to himself? How could anyone? Of course, just about every nation had inflicted harm upon itself at some point, and had the scars to prove it, but those situations were… different. They were because of war, or self-defense, or – Germany flinched slightly at the memories – following orders. This was just… wrong. Italy wasn't at war; there was nothing he had to defend himself against. The rest of the world would have found out if he had been given orders to do anything like _that_. When the governments became involved, secrets didn't stay hidden among the nations for long.

Germany groaned in frustration, massaging his temples. He shouldn't be thinking of this. He should be working. But he couldn't. He couldn't focus on the words before him.

He felt sick to his stomach, unable to shake the feeling that it was his fault. That he was to blame for this. All of it.

He should have paid more attention to Italy. He would have been able to tell that something was wrong, something was off. He would have been able to help.

He shouldn't have pushed Italy away when the other tried to be friends. He shouldn't have yelled so often in impatience. He should have been more open. Then Italy would have felt comfortable enough to talk to him.

It wasn't like he had any real friends, anyway. Acquaintances, yes. Allies, yes. But no friends. Sure, Japan seemed friendly enough, but Germany really could never tell what he thought about anything. America tried to be friends, but their personalities just seemed completely incompatible. That, and America seemed to have no tact whatsoever. Italy…

…_turned away from him, refusing to speak, refusing to even make eye contact. Spoke to him in a venom-laced voice that defied his happy-go-lucky expression. Snapped at him abruptly before slamming down the telephone again…_

…Italy, apparently, no longer considered him a friend.

Germany wished that it wasn't true. He still thought of Italy as a friend, but thoughts like that were useless if they weren't returned. He wanted to help Italy, but he couldn't do anything if Italy wanted to have nothing to do with him.

Maybe this was all planned, some sort of punishment from an omnipotent being. Maybe he was still being punished for the World Wars; there were certainly times when he felt that he deserved it still. Times that he felt that he didn't deserve a friend like Italy. Maybe he was right. Or maybe Italy was never really his friend…

The front door slammed open. "_Westen!_" Prussia shouted. Germany was thankful for the interruption.

"_Was?_" He called back, half-hoping that his brother would try to talk him into going somewhere, doing something. Even if anything Prussia tried to talk him into would probably lead to both of them getting into serious trouble. He needed something, anything, to distract him from his thoughts. Something to keep him from thinking about Italy.

Prussia didn't answer immediately. Germany listened to his footsteps, loud and even, approaching the office, and looked back at the papers. He had to at least make it look like he'd been working. "You two need to talk," Prussia said, from the doorway. Germany looked up.

And froze.

Italy stood in the doorway, fists clenched, staring at the floor, Prussia's hand against his back as a subtle deterrent from leaving. Italy, refusing to meet his eyes but being stopped from turning away, from leaving. Italy, who still looked like he wished he could be anywhere but here, in Germany's presence.

There was a long period of silence, none of the nations wanting to be the first to break it. The clock kept ticking. Germany stared at Italy. Italy stared at the floor, at the wall. Prussia hesitated, and then left the room. Germany wished he hadn't.

Italy chewed on his lip for a moment. "Why?" He asked, his voice cracking. Germany realized that he'd been crying. He looked away.

"I could be asking the same question."

"You don't understand." Barely a whisper.

Germany looked down at his work, meaningless words printed on white paper. "You're right…" he agreed. The two fell silent again.

"But I want to."

Italy looked up in surprise, soon fading to suspicion. "Why would you care?" He snapped.

Germany hesitated, certain that saying the wrong thing would only make things worse. Italy took his silence as a lack of an answer.

"That's what I thought." He turned to leave. "You don't."

"I never said that," Germany said. Italy stopped, his back to the other nation.

"Ve… you didn't have to. It's obvious enough."

"Italy…"

"Don't you _dare_ try to lie to me!" Italy shouted, turning back to face Germany. He drew in a shaky breath before continuing at a more normal volume. "Just don't. We both know that you think I'm useless."

"Italy–"

"Shut up! You don't care about me; you just want to make yourself look good!"

"_**Stop that!**_" Germany roared, finally losing his patience. Italy flinched back instinctively. A tense silence settled between the two of them. Germany pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to calm down a bit before speaking again. "Don't… go putting words in my mouth like that."

Italy opened his mouth to say something, but Germany held up a hand. "Please, let me talk," he said. Italy closed his mouth with a scowl. "I know… I probably haven't been the best person to you…" The brunette scoffed slightly, but didn't interrupt. "But I have _never_ considered you useless."

"Useless, weak; same thing," Italy mumbled.

"It is not," Germany said, quietly. Italy gave him a suspicious look. Germany looked down for a moment before continuing, "And… military weakness isn't necessarily a bad thing. The world would probably be a lot better if more people realized that."

Italy said nothing, just continued to stare. Germany sighed. He couldn't shake the feeling that he had to do something, had to help. He'd probably just make a mess of it. It probably wouldn't work at all.

_But still_, he mused, _it's worth a try._


End file.
